


for you, darling, i would hang the moon and stars

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pre-Canon, Secret Relationship, Smoking, Stargazing, ill-advised work relationship, rare pair week, very light angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 04:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21404404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Theirs is an unusual arrangement, a mutual unleashing of tension and desire that started somewhere near the Auckland Islands. Captain and steward find themselves at odds when one man succumbs to his misery and the other to his servitude.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2019





	for you, darling, i would hang the moon and stars

**Author's Note:**

> for The Terror Rare Pair Week 2019, Tender Tuesday, _A Comforting Touch_

The sea is calm tonight, and her serenity envelopes the ship with a mother’s cradling embrace. It is early in the voyage, enough that the men’s spirits are high. They are excited to be a part of history, a cornerstone of British discovery and dominion of waters untouched by man.

The eagerness infects every man, and even when civilization fades behind them once _Erebus _and _Terror_ sail beyond Disko Bay, each ship buzzes with anticipation of all to come. The men’s letters and the officers’ reports to the Admiralty travel eastward aboard whaleships. It is the last of any correspondence until they send word of their success, navigating the Passage.

Thomas meant to send a letter of his own, but his attempts lie half-written and crumpled in his cabin. He refuses to allow the unfinished letter be a source of discontent as he turns down the captain’s bed. He has enough on his mind to waste energy on undue stress. The days are growing shorter, and in a sense, Thomas feels that he is always lacking time as he busies himself throughout each day.

Exiting the bed cabin, Thomas pauses, his arms full of the used linens, when he sees the sun’s rays through the stern’s windows, casting light beyond the ship. With the ships facing west, Thomas cannot see the sun itself, but he can detect the early sunset by way of burgundy clouds streaking across the sky, deepening to indigo by the dark, glassy sea.

He shakes himself from his reverie, carrying the laundry from the room, returning moments later with fresh linens. He can hear laughter and the clink of silverware as he passes the wardroom, the officers equally in high spirits. The conversation sounds much livelier than usual, and Thomas feels relief for the lieutenants.

Crozier is absent this evening, having received an invitation from _Erebus _to dine privately with Sir John. He had dreaded the evening, naturally, and grumbled while Thomas helped him dress, not a single word of encouragement from Thomas enough to lessen his temper.

In the captain’s absence, Thomas takes advantage of the time by delegating his wardroom duties to Mr. Gibson and Mr. Genge so he may scrub the floors of the captain’s cabin, take stock of the liquor cabinet, and tidy the rest of the main room. He is unsure when Crozier will return, but he has set everything aside to help Crozier prepare for bed as soon as he desires, once he is back on _Terror_; each lamp turned low and inviting, the nightclothes spread out on the bed, the linens freshly changed. Thomas considers getting a head-start on tomorrow’s mending, his mind accustomed to thinking ahead in tidy, straight lines of thread, needle, buttons, and stitches.

Any plans are cut short, however, when he hears the commotion of the watch greeting their captain’s return above.

Thomas pats the sides of his waistcoat, realizing too late that he has left his watch in his cabin. It seems an early hour for Crozier to be back already, but without his watch, he cannot say.

He hears the thud of Crozier’s boots on the ladder and down the hall, and the door to the great cabin slides open with force, slamming into its groove with a mighty racket. The conversation next door wilts at the noise. Recognizing the telltale signs of a foul mood, Thomas nods and greets Crozier with a murmured _sir _but otherwise stays silent as he slides the door shut. He turns his back to the paneling, his arms clasped behind him as he waits.

Crozier is already on his second glass of whiskey, pouring the liquid from its container and swallowing the contents of each glass at a rapid pace matching the desperation of a man lost in a desert, diving headfirst into the clear waters of any oasis he may chance upon.

Third glass. Crozier throws his head back with a gasp and a groan. Thomas averts his eyes.

Thomas weighs his options. He starts to move toward Crozier to to try gently steering him from the cabinet, but Crozier beats him to it. He plugs the decanter and crosses the room to stand before Thomas.

With no further warning, Crozier grabs a of handful of Thomas’s sleeve and yanks him into a tight embrace. After a shaking sigh, Crozier buries his face into his shirt collar as Thomas chuckles in sympathy, looping his arms around Crozier’s waist.

“That bad, was it?” he says, pressing his nose into the hair above Crozier’s ear.

Crozier groans again. “I would rather take a midnight dip among the bergs and ice floes than have to endure another evening of Fitzjames and his goddamned epics.”

“I thought you were dining alone with Sir John.”

“As did I.”

Thomas hums in apology. He nuzzles the shell of Crozier’s ear as he starts to rub a trail of small circles with his fingers up Crozier’s spine, the way he knows the captain likes. Some stiffness eases from the muscles in Crozier’s back, and with an appreciative sigh, he turns his head so that may rest his cheek on Thomas’s shoulder.

“Would you like me to prepare you for bed, sir?”

Crozier pulls away, scrubbing a hand over his face. Thomas’s eyes dart to the tangles that makes along his hairline, but he makes no comment.

“No,” Crozier says, “I’m far too restless to sleep after that debacle.”

Thomas nods, his lips quirking. “Wouldn’t want your dreams overflowing with Commander Fitzjames and his exploits?”

Crozier barks a laugh, the joke unexpected but appreciated as always.

“That, too.” The smile falls from his face as quickly as it appeared. “No, no, Sir John had a letter from his wife in which she had all sorts of suggestions for everything from our magnetic observations to our rations. Of course, Sir John found it necessary to go over all of this with me, as a _courtesy_, no doubt.”

Thomas drops his eyes to the floor, the source of Crozier’s bad temper all too clear. The Franklins — and their niece — are a sore topic for Crozier. Thomas does not know the full history of his ill-fated romance with the young Miss Cracroft, but what little Crozier has deigned to share with him, it is clear that it is a wound still festering and bleeding.

“Would you rather,” Thomas starts, treading carefully lest he step on a crack and fall through the ice, “something else, then? I can keep you company, if you like, sir.”

His fingers catch along the buttons of Crozier’s coat, near the waistband of his trousers. The meaning in Thomas’s words, unspoken and deliberate, is clear as day, and Crozier’s face flushes with more than drink.

Theirs is an odd arrangement, a mutual unleashing of tension and desire that started somewhere near the Auckland Islands, if Thomas remembers correctly, during their prior expedition. When he came aboard _Terror _once more in 1845, he and the captain picked up exactly where they left off, never asking more of one another than what he can give, never requiring more than a couple shared drinks and a few romps behind closed doors.

Thomas does not expect preferential treatment beyond their private time together, and Crozier never presumes to force Thomas to do anything beyond his comforts. Their system works, providing both of them with a modicum of comfort while away from home, and Thomas cannot resent the captain, when these spare moments are something that Thomas has learned to treasure himself.

Crozier’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. He cups Thomas’s cheek and kisses him, pulling away when feels Thomas’s hands beginning to stray.

“No, no, not tonight.” He kisses Thomas again to lessen the impact of his refusal. “You spoil me as it is.”

“It’s no trouble,” Thomas says, pressing the flat of his palms against the lapels of Crozier’s coat. “Sir.”

Brushing aside the errant strand of hair always falling over Thomas’s brow, Crozier kisses the center of Thomas’s forehead. Thomas closes his eyes and has to bite his lip from the sudden, unwelcome surge of grief that hits him.

In so many ways, the captain is commander, lover, and father alike to Thomas, and the familiarity of that kiss pains him.

If Crozier detects the emotions battling in Thomas’s mind, he doesn’t say. He walks to the window, leaning forward to glance out the thick glass.

“I’ve a better idea.” He looks over his shoulder at Thomas and digs out his pipe from his pocket, biting the stem between his teeth while throwing Thomas a roguish grin. “Grab your coat. Let’s go on deck.”

Watching as Crozier nimbly climbs the ladder to deck, Thomas collects his coat and welsh cap from his cabin. He pulls both on after he has stepped into the frigid air outside. Crozier has stationed himself near the bow of the ship, leaning against the rail as he pulls out his pouch of tobacco.

Thomas hurries to join him, flinching when a gust bounces off the waves, whistling through whatever seams and buttonholes are not tightly cinched on his coat. When he shivers, Crozier glances at him and jerks his chin, gesturing for Thomas to stand closer.

“Forgive an old man his memory…” Crozier starts, as he presses the tobacco into his pipe and lights it.

“You’re not old, sir,” Thomas says, smiling at the stern look Crozier gives him for the interruption.

“But I cannot recall if you smoke.”

“My pipe is in my cabin, sir.”

Crozier hums with the stem of the pipe in his mouth, breathing in deeply, holding it a few seconds before he releases several large plumes of smoke into the air. He turns to face the ocean before them, Thomas following suit.

“We’ll have to share then, if you don’t mind.” He lifts the pipe and waits for Thomas to take it.

With a curling smirk, Thomas coyly drops his voice, “I’ve had worse things of yours in my mouth, sir.”

Crozier snorts, his shoulders quivering with silent laughter, and he has to slap a hand on the railing to calm himself. He glances over his shoulder to make sure none of the other men on deck are in listening distance; something Thomas already noted: Seaman Wentzall at the wheel, Mate Hornsby by the stern, Private Hammond halfway down the starboard side.

Crozier leans in close enough that Thomas can feel his warm breath against his cheek.

“You, Mr. Jopson, are obscene.”

“No, sir. Only truthful.”

The pipe is warm from Crozier’s lips and hands, and the smoke filling Thomas’s lungs is a solid defense against the chill. Thomas feels his skin burning in the cold, but he is grateful for the pink disguising any additional blush underneath. After a few puffs, he returns the pipe to Crozier, who has tipped his head back to stare at the sky above them.

The brightest stars have broken through the darkening wine-colored sky, like the shimmering lights of glow worms illuminating a meadow after dusk.

“You know your stars, don’t you, Jopson?”

“I know Polaris, sir, but not others.”

After exhaling another cloud of smoke, Crozier gestures with the pipe. “Polaris is the tip of the tail for Ursa Minor. There, there, and there.”

Thomas follows Crozier’s hand diligently, trying to picture the constellation as clearly as the captain must see it.

Crozier hands Thomas the pipe and clasps his hands together once they’re free.

“I think as a young man,” he says, his voice faraway and sad, “my first love was for the stars, the sea second. I knew them all.” He points at them as he recites; “Ursa Major, Draco, Cassiopeia, Perseus. I figured that as long as I could see familiar faces in the sky, I could navigate anything.”

The words border on despair; no great fiery being from the heavens ready to pluck the ships from the ice should they take a wrong turn. Thomas finishes his turn with the pipe and hands it back.

“My brother and I made up our own constellations,” Thomas says, conversationally, his attempt at rerouting their the topic to safe waters. “It was this…silly game we played. We named them after what we knew, household items mostly. The Kettle, the Broom, Stagecoach, Tomcat.”

Crozier grins. “No great heroes of old in the Jopson household, I see.”

Thomas laughs, a gentle puff of air. “No, my brother was more creative than that. I had to convince him once that _shithole _was inappropriate. We met in the middle and named that one the Chamberpot.”

The story takes Crozier by surprise, and he howls with laughter so loud that the other men on deck turn to stare at the pair of them questioningly. Thomas dips his head, relieved that his childhood tale was enough to bolster the captain’s mood. He waits until the laughter dies down, the captain wheezing as he holds a hand to his side.

“I knew you were a sharp one,” Crozier says, puffing, “but your brother sounds like a force all his own.”

The conversation fades, overcome by the gentle hiss of the waves buffeting against the sides of the ship. It is fully dark save the twinkling of stars and the lamps spread along the deck for the watch. Thomas arches in surprise when one of Crozier’s gloved hands lands on his lower back. When the initial shock passes, he leans into the touch. He clenches his hands on the railing to keep himself from touching the captain back.

“They must be proud of you, Thomas. Your family,” Crozier voices says in an intimate, slurring drawl. “I know I am.”

The words sting more than soothe, and Thomas closes his eyes from the salt of the sea.

_You only say that because you’re drunk_. Thomas bites the words from his tongue, the bitterness of them buried in the creases of the tight smile he gives to Crozier.

Taking a calculated risk, Crozier moves the hand from Thomas’s back to his cheek, stroking with the back of his knuckles. He removes the hand before anyone else on deck may see.

“Why don’t you retire early? I can fend for myself. You deserve some time on your own.”

The kindness is a thin veil for Crozier’s own misery, and Thomas does not want it. If he were a bolder man, in a position where he could voice his needs and wants, he would shake some sense into Crozier, tell him how the good opinion of the Franklins and Sophia Cracroft doesn’t matter, tell him how important he is to the men on _Terror_, expound on the measure of worth Crozier has to his friends, confess the brimming depths of his own adoration and love for a man who sees him more as his ward than his lover.

He would ask to return to the great cabin with Crozier so that may kiss away his worries and fall asleep in his arms, lulled by the steady rhythm of their breaths and heartbeats.

He knows that if he speaks the request, Crozier would not refuse him.

“Of course, sir. Thank you,” he says instead. “Good night, sir.”

Crozier nods in return. He places the pipe back to his lips, his eyes cast skyward and distant.

The pangs in Thomas’s chest do not stop once he is below deck. The dull ache persists while he undresses and washes before slipping beneath the covers of his berth, feeling more like a child sent to bed without dinner than an officer’s servant given respite.

Noise filters from the fo’c’sle into his cabin through the flimsy curtain, and Thomas turns onto his side and faces the white-washed planks of the wall, staring hard so that the grain of the wood may cast from his mind the image of Crozier laughing, head thrown back, the glittering of stars reflected in Crozier’s face, dazzling and radiant.

Thomas pulls the covers over his head and closes his eyes, hours yet until sleep is kind enough to carry him away to a similarly cool night on the opposite side of the world, where a young steward embraces his captain, and they dance under a watchful, starry sky.


End file.
